Blows of grime frigidly strike me
from another dust bowl
Your small storms build up under my nails into a calcified crescent.
These claws are now the most dense part of me. My frail bones resemble paper mache in comparison.
So,
I gnaw the claws off
to preserve what once was.

A resemblance to little stumps,
from cut trees,
or clipped branches?
Which would hurt, less?
Leaving a drought all together with one swift cut or pruning off the sickness.

I don’t want to scratch skin
the way your high speed sand does!
Rippling over my aching arms!

I want..
I should
Create an oasis,
one out of those sick branches to shield my once
Sandy eyes

Dig for comfort in the calm I built

Settle
...
Dream

to build armor of twine and run
Into the storm with no tears in my eyes

leave a note in the dirt with my soft stubs and walk out of your dessert.